He stirred a few hours later with a ringing in his head, realising it was the telephone. He had no intention of answering it as he rolled over and dozed for a few more minutes. His bladder told him he had to relieve himself, so he stumbled to the bathroom. Not trusting himself to stand and hit the bowl, he pulled down his pants and sat down on the toilet. God! His head hurt. When he finished his ablutions, he reached into the medicine cabinet for the Tylenol and, after struggling with the security cap, shook out three of the extra-strength tablets and swallowed them dry.
Somewhat awake now, he noticed the message light flashing on the phone and checked it.
Hi Miguel, Maria here. Please call me.
Miguel sat down and held his head in his hands. He was in no condition to call her now, so he ordered in a pizza to get food in his stomach. Hopefully, within an hour, he would sober up enough to talk to Maria.
The doorbell rang, and he peeked through the curtains and saw it was the pizza delivery. He opened the door and paid off the guy, carrying the piping hot box to the kitchen. He thought about a beer—how can you eat a pizza without beer? But decided against it. Opting for a bottle of water, he sat at the kitchen table and devoured most of the pizza, closing the lid on the last two pieces—he would have that later.
Feeling much better with his head more of a dull throb now, he called Maria. She answered on the second ring.
“Hi Miguel,” she said. “How are things?”
“Fine. Got all the arrangements made. Funeral’s Friday.”
“Are you OK?”
“I'm OK.”
“You sound a little off.”
“I was having a nap and just got up,” he lied.
Maria didn't buy it but would not push it .
“We’ll need you here early tomorrow morning. It is a five-hour drive to Bluefields and we want to be there two hours beforehand to scope out the place. We plan on leaving here by 8:00.”
It would take at least 4½ hours to get to the base in Nicaragua, meaning he would have to leave home before 3:30.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
“Good. See you tomorrow.”
* * * *
Miguel set his alarm for 2:30 a.m. After showering and shaving he grabbed a yoghurt from the ‘fridge, sipped a coffee and left the house by 3:30. He arrived at the base 4½ hours later and was met by Alex, Maria, and Melinda as they loaded one of the Chevy Suburbans. Melinda had flown in from Atlanta the previous day. Unlike Maria, Melinda was fair-skinned with dirty blonde hair and slightly shorter at about 5' 6". Physically, they were very similar being of average but fit build. Maria introduced Miguel to Melinda as they got into the vehicle.
“I’ll fill you in on the way,” Maria said to Miguel, gesturing him to the back seat where she joined him.
Melinda eased herself into the front passenger seat, and Alex got into the driver’s seat. After starting the vehicle, he scattered stones from all four wheels as he peeled out of the driveway. Maria unfolded a map of the area where she had circled the Bluefields port. One of the few ports for Nicaragua’s east coast, it is located to the north of the town of Bluefields. Maria fished into her file folder and produced aerial photographs showing much greater detail.
“It is classified as a small port and can handle ships up to 500' with a draft no greater than 10'. There is a wharf with no fixed cranes, so ships have to rely on their own cranes to load and unload cargo. We will set up here,” she pointed to a spot just south of the wharf. “From that vantage point, we will see any shipments being delivered. Due to the size of the wharf, they can only accommodate one ship at a time. We checked out the Camilla, and she is a medium-sized cargo ship of Panamanian registry with a length of 210' and gross tonnage of 1,700. We have confirmed her ETA as 15:00. Hopefully, we can isolate the cargo we are looking for and, if not picked up right away, we can go in under the cover of darkness.”
“What if it is picked up?” said Miguel.
“Then we follow the truck and ambush them on the road. There is a point here,” she pointed to a spot on the map, “where we should be able to apprehend them. We can get there before them and set up a roadblock.”
“Sounds good,” said Miguel.
They sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Maria wanted to probe more into Miguel’s situation but decided against it. He will tell me when he is ready , she surmised.
They followed Highway 7 through the sparsely populated area within central Nicaragua and descended into Bluefields at just after 1:00 p.m., electing to drive into town for lunch. Hot and humid air enveloped them when they stepped out of the air-conditioned vehicle. They were in the parking lot of a small restaurant offering a variety of dishes advertised on signs in the windows. They took seats in a booth, and a cheerful young server approached them.
“Buenas Tardas ,” she said as she deposited four menus on the table. She asked what they wanted to drink, and they all opted for a non-alcoholic beverage. Miguel and Melinda chose just a bottle of water while Maria and Alex settled for soft drinks. After perusing the menu, they each chose a dish and gave the order to the server when she returned with the drinks. The restaurant was quite busy with many people smoking—obviously the anti-smoking campaigns had not reached into this part of the world. Their plates of food arrived—a spaghetti dish for Miguel, local fish for Alex, a chicken salad for Maria, and spaghetti for Melinda. They ate in silence, and Miguel realized it was his first meal of the day except for the yoghurt he had before he left home. Alex, Melinda, and Maria had eaten a light breakfast of toast with jam and a banana. Miguel signalled the server for another bottle of water, which he downed half and capped the rest for later. They had several bottles in the SUV though. The server returned to whisk away their empty plates and asked if they wanted anything else, to which they replied no. She returned with the bill, and Miguel went to the cash to pay, leaving a normal tip on the table—people remember heavy tippers, and they wanted to maintain as low a profile as possible; there is one road servicing Bluefields, so not too many escape routes .
It was now a little after two in the afternoon, and they proceeded to the observation point they selected. There was a parking lot for an apartment building that backed onto the port giving clear views of the docks. They pulled into an empty spot and left the vehicle’s engine on to keep the A/C going. Alex and Maria sat in the front seats with binoculars while Miguel and Melinda kept an eye to the rear in case someone approached them from the apartment building. After about 40 minutes, Maria said, “I think I got it,” as she adjusted the focus.
“Yes, I see it too,” said Alex. The port is within a sheltered harbour and ships entering or leaving are only visible when they rounded the isthmus that sheltered the docks. The ship manoeuvred between the various navigation buoys, no doubt under the hands of the port’s pilot, and swung around to line up with the side of the wharf, the name ‘Camilla’ clearly emblazoned on the bow. They could hear the bow and stern thrusters engage and witnessed the streams of muddy water being propelled from each end of the ship. Men scurried on the wharf using pilot lines, thrown to them from the ship, to haul the main lines to shore, looping them over a capstan. Once securely looped, the ship’s winches pulled them tight. The ship’s cranes swung a gangway into place and it was secured, then a white-uniformed man walked down the gangway.
“Probably the pilot,” said Alex.
Another white-uniformed man stood on the dock and walked up the gangway.
“Customs,” offered Maria.
A few containers were stacked on the decks amongst other covered cargo. Ship’s hands undid the tie-down straps and removed the covers. Once exposed, Alex and Maria scanned for the marked crates.
“Anything yet?” Alex asked Maria.
“No,” she said as she set the zoom to max and peered closely at each crate.
“Think it might be in a container?” Alex asked.
“Not likely. It is probably something they loaded individually at the last minute.”
“What do we have here?” said Maria.
“What?”
“On the wharf. Three men standing next to a panel truck. ”
“Got it,” said Alex. “You thinking what I'm thinking?”
“I won’t take any bets against it,” she said.
The first load lifted into the air and swung around over the dock, then lowered. The three men walked up to the load of crates, and one of them pointed to one of the dock workers, then gestured to the crates. No doubt, longshoremen here had the same union rules and would allow no one to unload any material. Five other dockers were called over and two each picked up a crate and loaded it into the truck. The man stuffed something into the dock worker’s hand that elicited a big smile and a tip of the hat. The men got into the truck and with a whiff of diesel exhaust, it slowly pulled away.
“Plan B,” Alex said as he put the vehicle into reverse and backed out of the parking space. He shot out of the lot and headed to Highway 7 out of Bluefields. Maria retrieved the waypoint of the ambush location set into the GPS. The feminine voice of the navigation system directed them through the maze of streets and finally led them to Highway 7.
‘Proceed along highway seven for twelve miles and your destination will be on your right ,’ the system’s female voice directed. As they had been a lot closer to the highway, they had no concerns about the truck not being behind them. When they reached the point they had selected, Alex pulled off the road into a truck lay-by empty of any vehicles. Maria scaled the small bluff with her binoculars and laid prone on the top looking back the way they had come. Alex, Melinda, and Miguel sat in the SUV and awaited Maria's signal. Traffic on the road was light, and in the 15 minutes they waited, only one transport truck passed by. Maria finally signalled the team and ran back down the bluff to join them. They were on a slight curve and could not see the oncoming traffic, but neither could anyone see them until they rounded the curve. Alex swung the Chevy across the road, leaving only a path for the truck to enter the lay-by. He stood behind the SUV with his MP5 pointed down the road. The truck appeared, and Alex saw the surprised faces of the three men staring out the windshield. Alex fired a short burst into the air, then waved the point of the gun in the direction of the lay-by. The truck slowed and eased into the designated area where Maria, Melinda, and Miguel stood with their MP5s pointed at the truck’s cab. The doors opened, and the men emerged with their hands raised.
“No dispares ,” one of them pleaded not to shoot. Miguel gestured for the driver to unlock the back roller door, then he herded them behind the truck where Maria and Melinda kept their guns pointed at them. Alex drove the SUV back to the lay-by and parked behind the truck. Miguel opened the roller shutter door and spied the three crates, each with the word ‘Karachi’ stencilled on them. They measured approximately three feet on all sides, and Miguel picked up a tyre iron from a clip on the side of the truck and levered off one of the lids. The nails creaked and squeaked as they pulled from the wood. He removed the lid, revealing large cardboard boxes marked ‘Coffee’. Probably decoys, he thought as he removed the top layer of boxes. More of the same boxes were below them. Alex took one of the boxes and opened it. It was filled with packages of white powder. He stuck his knife into one of the packages and tasted it.
“Heroin!” he cursed.
“Shit!” said Miguel. “It's a damned drug shipment.”
“Check the other crates,” Alex said, but Miguel had already pried open the other two. The same boxes marked ‘Coffee’ were in them and when he opened one, it contained similar packages of white powder.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” he said, throwing down the tyre iron.
Miguel jumped down from the truck and advised Maria and Melinda.
“Damn it!” Maria said.
“So,” asked Melinda. “What’s the plan now?”
“Call the Federales and get out of here,” Alex said. They used plasti-cuffs on the three men and ushered them into the back of the truck. Miguel pulled down the roller door and slipped the padlock into the hasp without locking it. They got into the SUV, and Alex peeled out of the lay-by and headed west. Maria put in a call to the Federal Police telling them the location of the truck while Melinda called Josh to update him on the situation. Before long, a trio of Federal Police cars with lights flashing passed in the opposite direction.
Maria called Alberto next.
“The Sarin wasn’t in the cases. It was just heroin.”
“Damn,” said Alberto. “I’ll advise Daniel. We must find that Sarin. ”
No shit , Maria said to herself. “Melinda has already updated the FBI. We’ll be back at the base in about five hours,” she looked at her watch. “Nine-ish.”
“OK, see you then.”
Twenty One
Born in Des Moines, Iowa in 1985, Omar Maroun was from Muslim parents. His father hailed from Afghanistan, and his mother from Egypt; both secret supporters of al-Qaeda activities for years. Amer Maroun grew up in Kabul amid the turmoil of the Russian occupation and at times, fought for the Mujahideen. He abhorred the west’s occupation of his country, and efforts to repress their way of life, or at least the way of life he had chosen, which was a strict Sharia law. He realized that his best way to support the cause was to live amongst the enemy and raise funds to support the Jihadists. Because a professor of Islamic studies at Kabul University, it wasn’t difficult to get a transfer to Iowa State University in their Psychology and Religious studies department. So in 1984, he and his wife moved to Des Moines. Setting up various charities, he reached out to Muslims to support Islamic studies in the US, but much of the money he collected financed terrorist activities back home.
Amer followed Sharia law at home, and after Omar was born, he brought him up to follow the same teachings. Amer and his wife, Halima, schooled him in Islamic studies, including learning the Qur’an and the important prayer routine. Halima would wear a full burka when she was outside the home, and since she was not educated through her upbringing, she had no skills of any value to an employer. However, they survived well on Amer’s salary and lived in a modest home in a predominantly Muslim neighbourhood. Amer impressed upon Omar how important it was to maintain their strict Islamic beliefs, and to keep their support of Sharia law a secret. “Infidels do not understand the teachings of Mohammad; that the Qur’an is the word of the one true God.”
Amer introduced Omar to other, like-minded individuals and they would meet sporadically to share their extremist ideas. News of their group reached high-level planners in the al-Qaeda network, and they received a visit from a top-level operative, Basim al-Quereshi, who was in Al-Zawahiri’s close network .
“We have a plan,” Basim told the assembled group of Jihadists where they had assembled in a rented suite at a small hotel on the outskirts of Washington DC. None of them knew his Tom Delaney identity, and it would stay that way. Each attendant was advised to take a circuitous route to the location as many of them may be on Homeland Security watch lists. Because planes required too much information on passengers, it involved mostly driving. They used buses, trains, and cars to get them to Washington and all booked into nondescript motels using false identities. Along with Omar and his group, there were several other people. “We need our brothers like you to help us execute this plan against the US that will make 9/11 look like a minor disturbance.”
Eyes rolled around the room as the excitement built. All had been brainwashed to the idea that the more terror and death you can inflict on the US, the better you will be perceived in the eyes of Allah. “Soon, the Prophet will be among us and our salvation will be complete,” Basim continued. “No more will we endure the scourge of the Earth with the Americans and their puppet supporters.”
“When and where will this take place?” asked an excited Omar.
“I cannot reveal that now,” said Basim. “For security reasons, I can only give details t
o those who need to know, but I have chosen you, Omar, to lead this operation.”
Omar could not conceal his excitement and pride at being chosen to lead such a great event.
“It will be my honour to serve Allah,” he said.
“Come,” said Basim. “I will outline what we have in mind.”
He led Omar from the group and into a small conference room where they both sat down.
“Do you have any concerns about killing thousands of Americans?” Basim asked Omar.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “If it is the will of Allah, then it must be done.”
“It is the will of Allah,” Basim assured him. “We must continue our fight against the infidel Americans to clear the way for Mahdi, the Prophet Mohammad’s successor who will conquer the world for Islam.”
“Just tell me what I have to do,” Omar said excitedly.
“Do you know anything about chemical weapons?” Basim asked .
“Not a lot,” Omar responded. “I know that it has been used on occasion during some fighting back home.”
“The weak and feeble Americans are afraid to die because they have no afterlife and no paradise to look forward to, and this will be how we beat them. The problem is, we cannot compete with the American’s sophisticated warfare technology, and they are against anyone using chemical weapons. ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’ they term them. Ha! They use unmanned drones, piloted from somewhere in the US, to kill our people. We can only use the weapons at our disposal, and chemical weapons can be an effective way of killing large numbers of people. They can somehow justify dropping an atomic bomb on Japanese cities, killing thousands, yet outlaw the use of chemical weapons in warfare. How can they elect to limit the weapons to suit their own needs? If they want to give us the technology and sophisticated weapons they use, then maybe we would not have to resort to chemical weapons. Does it matter if when you are hanged that they use a new rope? Or make sure the knife is sterilized before they stab you? The notion of war is to kill your enemy, so what difference does it make what weapons you use?”
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